"All right. Get up here, but if you try any shit, I'll stomp you right here."
Bobby struggled to his feet and stretched, flexing his shoulders, feeling the inside of his swollen jaw with his tongue. Then he joined Crew Cut at the small window. overlooking the field from a height Zeus must have observed mankind. The electrical closet was five stories above the highest row of seats, even above the press levels and the luxury suites.
Somewhere below him, Bobby thought, Chrissy and Scott were watching the game, oblivious to his plight. While he'd been sitting there, contemplating his own mortality, he decided he was not afraid to die. What ate at his gut was the thought that he would never see Chrissy or Scott again. He imagined the pain they would feel. Then he vowed to fight. If he had a chance, he would claw his way out of here.
"Damn, Denver's moving," Crew Cut said.
Bobby watched as Skarcynski dropped back, avoided a sack by sidestepping Buckwalter Washington, then calmly stepped into the pocket and hit a wide receiver twenty yards down the field.
"That fat-assed Washington is sucking eggs," Crew Cut said. "He's gassed."
"He's been pigging out at buffets since the first round of the playoffs," Bobby said. "Looks like he gained fifteen pounds."
With a first down on the Dallas thirty-two yard line, Skarcynski peered over his line at the Dallas' defense where Washington scratched at the turf like an angry stag. Just before the snap, the linebackers moved up, filling the gaps between the linemen, knees bent, bouncing on toes, prepared to pounce like jaguars through the slightest crack in the offensive line.
"Gonna blitz!" Crew Cut shouted.
"Get rid of it quick," Bobby urged Skarcynski, as if he could be heard through the window, several stories above the field, and over the din of seventy thousand voices.
Skarcynski backpedaled into the pocket, and with an avalanche of Mustangs flailing at him, calmly flipped the ball underhanded to Shamar Pitts, the running back, who had feigned blocking for the quarterback.
"Shovel pass!" Bobby screamed, igniting the ache in his damaged jaw.
"Oh shit," Crew Cut said.
There is a sublime moment in football, Bobby thought, when an offensive play works on the field just as it was diagramed on the blackboard, when the "o's" are arranged as precisely as the stars in a constellation and the "x's" are scattered in useless disarray. Once the linebackers had committed to an all-out blitz, the defense was outnumbered on its side of the ball. As he crossed the line of scrimmage, Pitts headed upfield behind a phalanx of blockers who picked off the remaining corners and safeties. He scooted into the end zone untouched.
"TD!" Bobby cheered, trying to raise his shackled arms like an official and nearly tearing his shoulders out of their sockets.
Crew Cut slammed his fist into the window. "Bullshit!"
After the extra point, Denver led 14–13. It would not last, though, as the pace of the game had just changed. Falling behind seemed to ignite the Dallas' offense. Stringer led them down the field in six plays, scoring himself on a quarterback draw from the eight, making it 20–14 Dallas. Now, it seemed that the offenses had taken over, much to the delight of the fans.
With five minutes left in the game, Skarcynski began another drive, bringing Denver down the field with a deft mixture of runs and passes, tossing a 12-yarder to his tight end for the score and with the PAT, a one-point lead once again, 21–20..
"Looks like you might win the over after all," Bobby said.
"I don't care about that," Crew Cut said. "It's just twenty bucks. All I want is for the Mustangs to win."
"Why?"
"What kind of a question is that? They're my team. Always have been, even before I worked for Mr. K. Always will be."
With the time remaining now crucial to the game, as it is in life, a sense of urgency filled the stadium. Players hustled quicker back to the huddle. Fatigue was forgotten, and linemen fired out of their stances with ferocious purpose. Great waves of noise rolled through the stands along with a sense that the finale of the game would hold surprise and excitement.
Stringer guided Dallas into Denver territory yet again, needing a field goal to take the lead but a touchdown to cover the point spread. After three first downs, the drive stalled, and with just over two minutes left, Boom Boom Guacavera lined up for a long field goal that would give the Mustangs a two-point lead.
"Jesus, the line of scrimmage is the thirty-eight," Crew Cut said as the teams broke the huddle for the kick. "That makes the kick…"
"Fifty-five yards," Bobby said.
"Oh shit, he'll never make it. They should have gone for the first down."
"I wish you were right, but he'll make it," Bobby said. "He was banging them in warmups, and he's had the best week of practice of his life. He doesn't think he can miss."
Holding his breath, Bobby watched as Stringer barked signals while crouched just over seven yards behind the center. The snap came back high and wobbly, and Stringer stretched overhead, coming off his knee to catch it one-handed. He smoothly came back down and placed the ball on the pre-ordained spot. Boom Boom's powerful leg swept through the air with a motion as immutable as the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and he connected solidly. Bobby watched as the ball sailed end-over-end, descending as it crossed the goal line, looking as if it wouldn't make it, fluttering toward the goalpost where it bounced off the crossbar and fell over.
"Good!" shouted Crew Cut. "Holy shit! Good by a public hair."
Bobby gritted his teeth. It was a mixed blessing, a bittersweet symphony. Dallas led 23–21 but still hadn't covered the spread. Denver would get the ball and try to get in position for a winning field goal. Unless they turned the ball over and Dallas scored again, Bobby should win his bet.
But who'll be there to collect? A lawyer for my estate?
To hell with it. He wanted to live long enough to see Kingsley lose the bet, but nearly as important, he wanted Denver to score again. He wanted them to win the game, over and above the point spread.
After the timeout and the requisite commercial, Dallas kicked off and the crowd roared, even corporate CEO's appreciating the artistry and courage of the twenty-two gladiators. Watching the ball fly toward the returner, Bobby was struck by a revelation about the power of the game. Here he was, kidnaped and beaten, likely awaiting his own death, and he was cheering for a football team.
I must be crazy.
Not only that, the guy who would kill him was cheering, too, though for the other team. He'd seen something like it in sports saloons, two men who didn't know each other-a banker and a truck driver maybe-men who would never exchange hellos on a city street, huddled together like praying monks, as they dissected the strategy of going for it on fourth and one.
Sports distracts us, Bobby knew. It makes us forget our own problems as we throw our hearts and souls into something utterly meaningless on a cosmic scale. But it also brings us together. At the moment, he and Crew Cut were not captive and captor. They were just feuding fans. But in a few minutes, Bobby knew, the game would be over and unless he came up with a plan, the final whistle would signal his final breaths.
47
Martin Kingsley could not hear the voice on the phone. In the owners' suite, the team officials and corporate sponsors were hooting and hollering and noisily congratulating him, but every word, whistle and cant sounded like the executioner's song.
Don't these morons know we haven't covered the spread? Don't they know that winning isn't enough!
He was yelling into the phone at Chad Morrow, the Mustangs' director of game day operations. Just as he did at the NFC Championship Game in Green Bay, Morrow was standing behind the bench, relaying messages to Coach Krause from on high. "You heard me!" Kingsley yelled. "When we get the ball back, tell Krause not to sit on it. We need another score."